and truth is
by highboys
Summary: Touch is a privilege Ryoji has; desire, on the other hand, is not only his. Ryoji/FeMC/Akihiko.


**Title:** and truth is  
**Fandom:** Persona 3 Portable  
**Characters:** Ryoji/FeMC/Akihiko

* * *

**Pharos**

* * *

First, a secret.

It starts and ends with a boy. It starts and ends with "my" and "dearest", and time stretches slowly in between the moments. He waits, and the longing grows.

First, there is beauty. There is beauty in the slope of her throat, the swell of her breasts. He traces outlines of her form in his mind. There is no impurity in his thoughts; there is only his absolute truth.

He watches as she leans on the boy's shoulder, kisses the underside of his jaw. The sheets are white and her mouth is a slash of red against the boy's skin. She whispers a name - _Aki_ - and he shuts his eyes. Thinks of what her voice would sound like, in the darkness of his room. If she could. If he could bear to have her.

He waits.

* * *

**the transfer student**

* * *

He has a secret.

The first time someone offers him a handshake, he stares at the proferred limb, unsure of how to respond. The clasp of her fingers on his feels foreign, but the smile she offers is familiar, almost. He imagines the ease comes from the acquisition of physical contact, but he swallows his self-imprecations and grins back.

He makes an off-handed comment about her beauty. She does not blush, like other girls do. "Thank you," she says, tilting her head to the side. There's a measured pause in the motion, but she looks anything but calculating. "But I bet you say that to all the girls, don't you, Ryoji-kun?"

"It's the truth," he says. How careless; how cold. He wonders if this is love. ("Ryoji-kun," Junpei says later, staring at him, "you sound like a masochist, you know?")

"Ugh," Yukari says, butting in, "she's _taken_. Go hit on someone else."

* * *

**the senior**

* * *

Ryoji sees him in the hallways, sometimes. He's a boxer, the girls brag, and he's _so hot_ but you are too, Ryoji-kun! Ryoji preens and basks in the attention, but his eyes linger at the line of her back, at the way his senpai ruffles her hair and leads her to the rooftop.

What would he do with her, he wonders, a dull ache creeping in his bones, seeping into his skin. Would he kiss her, in the shadows? Would it be a light touch of their lips, or would it be needy? Would he brush her hair back before he leans forward? Would he be kind to her?

Ryoji is a stranger to intimacy, but stranger still, the thought excites him.

"I saw you," Ryoji sing songs when she steps into the classroom. Minako blinks and tries to laugh, but her fingers twitch as Ryoji comes forward to work at the ribbon on her uniform. To her credit, she does not blush. There is no embarrassment, no shame. There is only her version of the truth, and his.

"It's not like that," Minako says, tersely, and Ryoji stares at her until she turns away. The sound of her classmates coming back from lunch breaks the silence. Minako shifts as Ryoji pats the ribbon, careful not to touch her skin.

"It's not like that at all," she repeats, calmly this time, and Ryoji smiles.

* * *

**but I would have met you**

* * *

What does it mean to have a separate existence, to live on borrowed time?

He thinks of this, often. If, sometimes, he would get a strange, wistul look on his face as he watches her clean out the space on her desk, or if he would stare at the clock as if waiting for something to come, Minaki does not ask.

"You look like her, you know," Ryoji would say.

"Like who?" Minako answers, brushing her fingers against the worn fabric of a glove.

"My first love," Ryoji says, "I think."

"I think you love me for my face," Minako laughs, not missing a beat, but it's the truth, all the same.

"It's true," Ryoji says, and something in his chest trembles. It flutters and quakes. "I won't forget you."

First loves come once, temporal, but still -

* * *

**touch; go**

* * *

Touch is a privilege he has; desire, on the other hand, is not only his.

Some days Minako would brush her fingers across Ryoji's knuckles, bring a hand up to smooth down his hair as he closes his eyes. She would touch his cheek with a strange sort of gentleness and they would stand, side by side, crammed together in the corner of the train until their hands grow cold and Ryoji's mouth turns dry.

("Did you ever think it was a sign of infidelity?" Ryoji asks, voice curious.

"No," Akihiko says, sounding resigned. "It wasn't like that.")

Honest; this body is so honest.

* * *

**and the only thing he believes in is**

* * *

They could have been happier together.


End file.
